


Conscience of the King

by dragonwriter24cmf



Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Numair Whump, Psychological Trauma, Spoilers for Immortals Quartet, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21981241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonwriter24cmf/pseuds/dragonwriter24cmf
Summary: Jon doesn't want to send Numair to Carthak. He also has no choice. Diplomatic rules must be followed. A king's duty is to his people and his kingdom as a whole. That doesn't make it any easier to live with.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	Conscience of the King

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tamora Pierce.

**Conscience of the King**

When the official request for peace talks and trade negotiations comes in, his heart drops. After the incidents at Pirate’s Swoop and Dunlath, he knows better than to trust any offers of peace from Carthak. Unfortunately, refusing will cause friction among his allies. They aren’t officially at war with Carthak, after all. There’s no official reason for him to refuse the negotiations Ozorne is asking for, even if he’d rather shove the Emperor’s head underwater until he stops breathing. Besides, Ozorne has more troops and more ships, more mages and more weapons. He’s at a disadvantage, and any hope, or even any breathing space to plan, is needed.

He sends a polite reply, the courtly version of ‘yes, of course, when and where, and have you any other requests? And by the way, we’d like to include...’ It takes him a few tries and Thayet’s help, but at last the message is sent.

Ozorne sends back an equally formal, and irritating, letter. That the Emperor wants the meeting to be held in Carthak is no surprise. That he further wishes it to be held in the Imperial Palace is also no surprise. He would ask the same, in Ozorne’s place. And it’s the Emperor’s right, as the one who initiated the process, and the superior power, even if they aren’t saying so out loud.

The request for Veralidaine Sarrasri is a surprise, but it’s a potential lever, a bit of goodwill that they need if they’re to have any sort of bargaining power in these talks. He doesn’t even have to ask, though he will anyway, to know that Daine will go. Sick birds; he’ll have to keep her from trying to swim to Carthak the same day he asks when she hears that. This is the same girl who wandered into the mountains in the fall, with winter fast approaching, for a pack of wolves, and regularly ruins shirts, skirts, breeches and the like to help her friends.

The next request inspires the opposite reaction, and any mirth he felt over Daine’s likely response falls away. It’s couched in polite terms and with all the formalities observed, every detail taken care of, and to an uninformed reader, it’s a generous request and offer, but it still makes his blood run cold.

He takes a deep breath, and decides there’s no point in delaying. With a wave and a gesture, he sends a servant to fetch his court mage. Numair Sulmalin.

Numair shows up in his casual court clothes with his hair tied back and none of the uneasiness he’d display if he had any idea what the summons entailed. “You sent for me?”

“I did.” He waves Numair to a seat. Not only does he not want to crane his neck to deal with Numair’s ridiculous height, but he knows the mage is going to need that chair once he gets the news. “A...situation has arisen. Carthak has invited us to negotiations. For peace and for trade, according to Ozorne.”

Numair makes a disparaging noise. “If you can’t get it by force, try trickery. If not that, backstabbing, and more trickery. Typical Ozorne.”

“I’m inclined to agree. However, they have the stronger position. On the surface, it’s a generous gesture. Politically and strategically speaking, I can’t afford to refuse. And it does present an opportunity. If we play our cards right, it will earn us some breathing space to plan, and we might get a look at the spells they used to breach the barrier and release the immortals.”

Numair makes another sound. “Ozorne wouldn’t let that sort of advantage leave his grasp.”

“He might, if he were offered something he wanted in return. He mentions that several of his birds are ill, and requests that we send Daine to see if she can determine what the problem is.” He restrains the impulse to tap a finger on a pile of parchment. “By all accounts, Ozorne is genuinely fond of his birds.”

“It’s probably the only thing he might be fond of. He certainly has no care for people.” Something dark moves in Numair’s eyes. “I’d worry about you sending Daine to the wolves, but she can handle wolves. And Ozorne’s more of a jackal anyway. Still, she’s experienced enough, as long as there’s someone that she can trust to speak to, she’s level-headed and she should be fine.”

“I’m considering sending Alanna. But, as it happens, Daine is not the only one whose presence has been requested. According to the Carthaki, a young woman apprenticed in magic ought to be accompanied by her master.”

He sees the implication hit home. The color washes out of Numair’s face, leaving him ashen. Large hands clutch convulsively at the armrests of the his chair. “No.”

“Ozorne has issued a pardon with the invitation. You’re the strongest mage we have, and the best at memorizing information, like the barrier spells.”

“No.”

“It would enable you to keep an eye on Daine.”

“Alanna can do that.” Numair takes a huge, deep breath, eyes closed and sweat doting his brow that has nothing to do with temperature. “Jon, please...don’t ask me this. Please don’t ask me. I...”

It hurts, to see Numair, to see his friend, so close to begging. Nevertheless. “I need you there. You know Ozorne and Carthak better than any other I could send.”

“That’s why I….” Numair looks at him with huge eyes, madness surging just below the surface and barely held in check. He breathes in again, starts again. “Sinthaya modeled his dungeons off of Carthaki prisons. And his interrogation methods off of Ozorne’s techniques. You know...you know what that means.”

And he does. He remembers Alanna’s report. The torture chambers, the interrogation transcripts. He remembers how Sinthaya broke Numair’s arm, drugged him almost to the point of catatonia. How Numair was so terrified he took hawk shape and nearly killed himself, to get away.

He knows some of Numair’s history, from when he was Arram Draper. He knows some of what happened to the man, years ago in Carthak, though he doubts Numair has ever told anyone the whole story. He doubts anyone has ever pressed him for it. The little he does know gave him sleepless nights when he learned it.

He would give up the crown gladly, if it meant he didn’t have to do this. But the crown is his, by blood and magic and choice, however unpleasant the duty is at times. He is the king, and while Jonathan the man and mage, Numair’s friend, might not force him to walk into the den of the serpent, Jonathan the king has no choice. Numair has been requested, and he is needed, and the formally issued pardon destroys any reason he might refuse.

He tries again to soften the blow. “Ozorne has issued a formal pardon for you.”

Numair makes a gasping, half-smothered sound that sounds like barely suppressed hysteria. “You and I both know that’s as worthless as a wooden coin in the forest. And as real as Ozorne’s promises that he wasn’t involved in the attacks on Pirate’s Swoop and the Dunlath Incident.”

“That’s as may be, but I can’t afford to ignore it. And I can’t afford to say that to his face. And you know that, Numair. I have to accept the promises and the pardon and everything else, until he does something I can act on.” He pauses. “At least, it will give you some protection.”

“No. It won’t. Not from Ozorne. He doesn’t have your morals or your principles.” Numair shakes his head. When he looks up, the hysteria is sparking in his gaze, and it’s obvious that only the last edges of his control are keeping his magic from reacting to his emotions. “Jon...” He takes a deep breath and slides out of his chair. “Your Majesty...”

“I’m sorry Numair, but I need you there. You have a month before the preparations are final. Use that time to make whatever arrangements you feel you must. However, you will travel with the envoys and your student to Carthak, Mage Numair Sulmalin. King’s orders.”

He hates using his authority like this. Numair is his friend. Has been for a long time. Friend, trusted advisor, companion and ally. He hates using the crown to force compliance, especially in such circumstances.

Numair looks up from his position on one knee, his expression frozen as dark eyes search his own. He doesn’t let his gaze waver. After a long moment, something breaks in Numair’s eyes. Breaks and turns hard, ice and diamond crystallized around pain and fear. Numair dips his head, slow and formal. “As you command, Your Majesty.”

It hurts, to hear that icy formality, that complete and total dismissal, layered over anguish and a clear sense of betrayal. “Numair...”

“If Your Majesty will excuse me, I have preparations to make.” There’s no yielding in that tone. “I will require all the time I can spare from my duties in order to have the necessary arrangements in place by the projected time of our departure.”

As a friend, he wants to hug Numair and tell him it will be all right. As a king, he knows he has to pick his battles, and right now there’s no opening for him to use. And really, even if necessity dictates his actions, he’s not sure he deserves one. “Very well. You are dismissed.”

Numair rises, still with that slow, stiff formality. He bows once, from the waist as if they were in Court and he were making a formal petition. Then he straightens, turns on his heel in a sharp, precise pivot, and leaves.

It’s only after the door closes that he allows himself to think about the image of Numair on his knees, and what it means. How close Numair came to begging him, abasing himself completely at his feet. He’s sorry he didn’t keep Numair from kneeling, but he’s glad he stopped the man from speaking. The ice between them will last for a while, as will the hurt, but he’s not sure either of them could come back from it, if he’d have to issue those orders after allowing Numair to humiliate himself. As it stands, Numair might forgive him. Eventually. 

Eventually. But not the next day, or the next, or even within the next fortnight. Numair rarely appears in the castle, skips most meals, never attends Court unless he absolutely has to. When forced to attend planning sessions, he sits in the corner farthest away, and says nothing unless asked a direct question by someone else. Usually Alanna, who has agreed to join the envoy’s party. It’s obvious, from the way Alanna glances between them, that she knows the source and depth of the strife between them. Equally obvious that the official negotiators are oblivious, deliberately or not, and that Daine is confused, but knows enough not to ask awkward questions.

Of their circle of close friends, Thayet understands and is on his side, though she understands Numair’s coldness as well. Alanna is clearly torn, but loyal to the Crown, though she worries. Ouna is obviously on Numair’s side. But then, she’s horse-hearted, and she and Numair are close, closer than Numair is to many people. And she had the joy of nursing Numair after Sinthaya’s...assault. She takes it more personally than most. Daine is also on Numair’s side, but she doesn’t understand everything, and so her behavior is more neutral. He suspects that if Daine knew everything she would be outraged.

Sarge and Buri and the rest are carefully neutral, distancing themselves from the conflict.

For his part, he lets Numair have his silence and his absence. He pretends not to know about the feverish work going on at the college, the flares of magic that erupt more and more often until about a week before departure. He says nothing about Numair’s skipped meals, and pretends not to notice the distant formality that saturates every word the mage speaks in his presence.

He ignores the alcohol that disappears at an alarming rate for the first three days after he delivers the news. He ignores, likewise, the privacy spells that lock around Numair’s room, some of them keyed to keep him out specifically. He knows, and Numair knows, that he could breach them, that the magic of the Crown would make nothing of the wards if he deemed it necessary, but he doesn’t try and he doesn’t ask.

He doesn’t need to. Not after the second night, when he finds Alanna in the hall outside Numair’s rooms, watching over the mage. Not when he stops and she shakes her head. “Don’t ask me.”

Not when, over the following weeks, he comes across Alanna and Buri and Ouna, and even Thayet once, watching over the room with the same sad intensity. Not when, on their rare encounters, he sees the dark circles under Numair’s eyes, the haunted fear he tries to hide behind a mask. 

Not when he feels the layered wards that keep magic from leaking and affecting the castle. Wards that are only used on untrained children, or the mentally and emotionally disturbed who possess the Gift. Or wild magic like Daine’s.

The night before departure, he stops beside the door. It’s well after midnight, and he’ll be running short of sleep in the morning, but...he looks at the door, then at Ouna, who stands watch. Because of course Alanna is resting, in preparation for the trip.

He could stop, then walk away, quiet as he has been. But he doesn’t. Because even though the king must give the order and pretend not to count the cost, Jonathan the man cannot. “Tell me.”

Ouna gives him a cold look, and he relents. “Please.”

A king should never say please. And she knows it. He watches as some of the tension leaves her shoulders, as she sighs.

After a moment, she speaks, as quiet as he and sorrow in her voice. “He hasn’t stopped having nightmares since...since you told him. Not even when he drank himself stupid for three nights running. I had to stop him, remind him of his responsibilities to Daine, or he’d have kept going.”

“Bad nightmares?”

She heaves out a breath. “I’m no dreamseer. But...I’ve enough magic to sense things. Especially when it’s my wards up.” She breathes in, then out, a meditative breath. “Horrific.”

He swallows. She keeps talking, either unaware of the turmoil she’s ignited in him, or deliberately twisting the knife. “I remember when my husband...well, before he tried to kill me. Took me years to stop dreaming about that, and if Numair hadn’t taught me meditation and proper protection circles, I’d likely still dream about it.” She shakes her head, then meets his gaze. “I reckon my nightmares would be better than his though.”

Air seizes in his lungs for a moment. Her husband beat her and left her to die, after years of abuse, and she’s saying Numair’s dreams are worse? A cold chill sweeps over him. “Gods...”

“Gods don’t enter into it, unless you think they’re cruel on purpose. Jon, I saw him after Sinthaya. He’s lucky he got away quick, luckier still that he was so drugged he can’t properly remember what happened. I’ve heard the stories, and by all the Horse Lords, I’ve seen his scars. The visible ones, mind. Whatever happened to him in Carthak, it was bad.”

He knows. He remembers when Numair, Arram at the time, first came to court. First came to Tortall and Corinth. Barely more than a boy, but jumpy, half-starved, terrified of his own shadow and his own magic. And the first time he was brought before the throne…it took everything he had to keep the man from bolting, and months longer to get him to a proper weight. Near a year to get anything like a smile, and longer still to get him to relax. He swallows hard, and asks the question he doesn’t want to, but his conscience won’t let him avoid. “Do you know…?”

“How bad? No. He never says. Little bits here and there, but nothing detailed. But...”

She twists her hand and produces the beginnings of a listening and speaking spell. He knows what she’s offering. With it being her wards, she can get the spell past them.

He nods. She finishes the spell, and suddenly, there are words. Blood drains from his face as he listens to the words, spoken in a higher, younger, more boyish tone.

“No...stop...stop...oh gods, please, please...no...no, no, no, don’t, please don’t...” The words cut off into a strangled cry, and Ouna ends the spell a second later.

“That was mild. And it’s an invasion of privacy that he’s likely to hate me for, but you...you deserve to know what you’re sending him to.” The reproach in her eyes makes it clear that her words are not acceptance.

“I know.” His response is in the same tone. “I would that there were another way.”

She sighs, and the recrimination drains away into tired...not acceptance, but understanding. The understanding of a horse-handler who's had to send her beloved horses into dangerous situations. “I know. And so does he. But he has to be angry at you right now.”

He nods, understanding. Rage is a shield of sorts, and he’s not callous enough to deny Numair the scant comfort of it. “Perhaps he will forgive me, when it is over.”

“If he lives, and Daine and Alanna take no harm…maybe.”

That is true. If Numair dies, he can’t forgive, and his ghost may very well haunt the palace. If Daine or Alanna comes to harm...well, Numair’s gotten used to Alanna in danger, but if his student is harmed, Numair’s rage will be the least of his worries. How to salvage the situation after his mage attempts to kill the Emperor and turn Carthak into a smoking crater will be a greater concern.

He leaves then, but he gets little rest, Numair’s cries ringing in his ears every time he closes his eyes. In a way, he considers it a sort of penance. Jonathan the king will put up with short sleep and boring duties, and for this one night, Jon the man will endure the knowledge of his friend’s torment and fear.

He sees the delegation off the next morning, and ignores Numair’s cold farewell. 

*****CotK*****

For the first two days after the delegation arrives, everything seems to go well. He dares hope that Numair’s fears are unfounded. Then, of course, omens of lightning and fire and worse occur, and his hope fades. Even more when it’s revealed that the leader of the Dunlath Stormwings is an open guest in Ozorne’s court. When it’s revealed that even the Stormwings are warning the delegation away, and Daine’s badger god has issued his own warning, he begins to understand Numair’s concerns.

And then talks stall, and he hears from Alanna of an incident between Ozorne and Numair, a confrontation involving Daine, and a brief disappearance. It’s not the reason given for the sudden hiccup in negotiations, but it’s alarming.

And he fears alarming may not be a strong enough word, when he hears Alanna’s description of what Daine saw Ozorne do to an illusion of Numair. Quoted straight from the young Wild Magic user.

_ ‘The Numair in the image, he was in rags and all beat up. And Ozorne, he just...he put one hand over the image and then he started to press, like he was squashing it, like a real nasty bug. And the image, it just...it was screaming and screaming and screaming, and he was just smiling, and smiling, like it was funny or something. He was enjoying it, same as some nasty folks enjoy dog baiting and the like.’ _

He’s not sure which is worse, Daine’s comparison, or the way she describes Ozorne’s face. Or the fact that he can picture it in his mind. 

And then Daine disappears, and negotiations are over, and everything goes to hell, worse than even he expected. And then Numair disappears.

Two days later, he sits, sick with dread and guilt over hearing of Numair’s execution. If he were not a monarch, or possessed of a weaker stomach, he would be emptying his gut. Execution by burning alive...Gods. It’s horrendous to imagine, and picturing Numair in that position...not even the prospect of preparing for war with Carthak can drive the image away.

Four days later, he hears that Numair is alive, apparently having substituted a simulacra to be executed in his place. A brilliant piece of magic, that. And Daine, temporarily possessed of powers granted her by the Graveyard Hag, has leveled the Imperial Palace with an army of bones. Lizard bones from bygone days. Ozorne, in a fit of fear and at the end of his resources, apparently turned himself into a Stormwing and fled. The new Emperor, a young nephew named Khaddar, is apparently possessed of more wisdom and less blood-lust than his predecessor.

War with Carthak has been averted. Everyone he cares for will come home safe. Were he not a monarch, he would faint with relief. As it is, he permits himself a drink. A stiff drink. And an hour to meditate and get himself back under control.

Four days after that, his people are home. He greets them all, then ushers them into a private room for their reports. The story they tell is fantastic, but then, many things surrounding Daine are, and they live in an age of wonders. Immortals. Gods intervening in human affairs. Perhaps the story is not so fantastic after all.

He dismisses Daine to rest, as she’s still recovering somewhat from the power she used. The envoys are likewise dismissed to their families, and Alanna to recover from seasickness in the arms of her loving husband.

And that leaves Numair. They lock eyes, the silence between them heavy. 

It’s Numair who finally breaks it. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He seizes the opening. “About treachery and possible attacks, yes. But I think that this is far beyond what you led me to expect might occur.”

Numair shrugs. It’s a little stiff, but it’s the least formal gesture he’s used since this whole thing started. “In my defense, divine interference, especially with Daine involved, is beyond  _ anyone’s _ ability to predict.”

“I suppose that would be true.” Daine has been a force for good, but an unpredictable one, since she first arrived. “At least the whole incident concluded on a beneficial note for us.”

“Yes. I suppose so.” Numair breathes out, meets his gaze. “It nearly didn’t.”

“I know.” He nods once, signaling his acceptance if Numair wants to continue.

Numair shudders. “I was nearly burned alive.” The words are a whisper. “If Ozorne had had his way, I would have been. After being tortured.” Dark, haunted eyes meet his. “You sent me to a man who would have broken my bones and shredded my flesh from them, then set me on fire and played with the flames to see how long he could make it last.”

“I know. I had no choice.”

“You had a choice.”

He considers, then amends his words. “I had no good choices, then. I had to send you. And Daine. And as a king, I cannot be sorry that I did so.” He sees the frozen anguish of betrayal creeping back into Numair’s face, and speaks the next words before it can settle. “As a man, however – as your friend – I am sorrier than you will ever know, and I worried for you every day.” And he can say that, in this room with no one else there, no one to witness what passes between them. “I cannot give you the apology you deserve, no more than I can give Daine either apology or recognition. But know that I grieved for what had to be done, and the cost.”

“The cost...” Numair breathes the words.

“Your fear. Your pain. Your nightmares. Daine’s fear. The danger to both of you.”

Numair watches his face, his expression still.

He moves forward, and dares to put a hand on the shoulder of this man he has wounded. “I am sorry, Numair. To you, and to Arram.” He separates the man from the boy on purpose, knowing as he does how and why Numair became what he is.

Something loosens, warms, in Numair’s eyes. He swallows and looks away. “I know.” The words are quiet, but tension goes out of the lean shoulders. “I know.” He swallows again. “Give me time, Jon. Please?”

He lets go, gentle as he can be. “Of course. As much as you need.”

A long silence, then Numair meets his eyes. “Thank you.” Another moment, then Numair dips his head and leaves.

That night, he walks by a small room near the stables, and listens to the restless sleep of a young girl who nearly lost her mentor, and her life for the sake of the crown and politics.

Then he walks up to the tower and stands outside a door, wrapping his magic around it to shield the occupant from unwanted consequences. Stands and listens as nightmares disturb a fitful sleep.

He stays until dawn, and leaves a message that Numair and his student are to remain undisturbed.

Later that day, he finds Ouna and Daine, and makes a specific request, one that both of them agree to readily. He pretends not to notice the shadows in the young mage’s eyes, knowing she wouldn’t want him to comment.

That night, he sinks into bed beside his wife, but he sleeps little. His mind is elsewhere. On a mage in a tower, watched over by a child and a woman and their animal companions. He does not know whether Ouna and her helper can prevent the nightmares or ease the memories.

He does not know how long it will take for things to return to normal. How long before they can all sleep through the night, without fear and old ghosts haunting their steps.

He does know, however, that his conscience will sleep uneasily as long as they do.

As will he.

**Author's Note:**

> Was reading a story written in Numair's point of view, and this just sort of wrote itself. Because being a king can't be easy, and neither can making a call like this.


End file.
